Millstone
by TheyMadeMeChooseAnotherName
Summary: Four years after the events of His Last Vow, John is struggling to keep his marriage together. The sole grace in his life is his daughter, Elodie, a precocious four year old girl who is too much like Sherlock for her own good. When Mary has a sudden revelation, John finds his life unraveling. Will someone break his fall? Please read and review. All rights belong to the creators.
1. Chapter 1

John glanced at his diminutive daughter fishing through the grease splotched newspaper for another chip. Elodie was precariously perched upon the stool and the oversized package of food on her lap completely blocked her stomach from view. He almost gagged on the steaming seafood in his mouth because of the chuckle bubbling up from his stomach. She turned her face to look at him with solemn eyes and he couldn't hold it in anymore. He spit into his napkin and started to sputter hysterically. Elodie looked at him like he had sprouted horns and charged her.

"I'm sorry, it's just for a second, you looked exactly like him." He explained. Her brow wrinkled as she pondered that statement,

"Oh," Comprehension slowly dawned on her face. "You mean Uncle 'Lock."

"Uncle 'Lock?" He said incredulously. "Can't say I've met him before."

"That's just what he lets me call him." She set her fish on the counter. "He said you'd ruin it and you did." She looked at him reproachfully.

"That's an awfully long title though, eh Lodie?"

"I got a nickname."

"But still, you don't give nicknames to mummy or me."

"Maybe that's because your names are too stupid and boring." John was taken aback at the venom in her tone.

"Elodie look at me." She brought her cornflower eyes up to his. "You cannot talk to people like that. It's disrespectful and I will not tolerate it. Do you understand?" His tone was that of a captain reprimanding an impertinent private.

"Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes sir." He sighed. Elodie was usually well behaved but when he had to, he did not enjoy doling out discipline. He watched as she swung her feet back and forth, staring at her pair of Campers bashfully.

"Lodie it's alright. It's not about you being bad, it's just sometimes you have to learn what's right and what's wrong." He grabbed her coat. "How 'bout we go and walk in Regent's Park for a while, I only have today off you know."

After wandering around the menagerie for two hours John purchased a bag of popcorn from a rather frazzled looking vender lady and they settled down on a bench to eat it.

"Why so quiet?" John asked. He hoped she wasn't still angry about earlier. It was unusual for him to get days off from surgery and he didn't want this one to be spoiled.

"Just thinking." Her brow was furrowed and she rested her head in hands as she thought. John's heart ached. Just from looking at her it was clear who her parents were. Her lips were John's. Her hair was Mary's. Her nose was John's. Her chin was Mary's, and so on and so forth. The only feature that couldn't be traced back to either one of them was her pair of shockingly blue eyes. He couldn't fathom where she got them from. The Watsons' had always had brown eyes, so maybe they came from someone on Mary's side, though she had never mentioned it...

"Daddy." John came back to, as Lodie's voice shook him out of his musings.

"Yes sweetheart?"

"Why does Uncle 'Lock have a lump over his heart?"

John's world took a hard blow; he was almost knocked backwards with the force of that simple question. He and Mary never told Lodie about _it_. God knows they could barely deal with it themselves, much less consider explaining the situation to a four year old.

"What do you mean Elodie," She looked at him, her eyes opened wide. John cursed himself, it was one of his tells. He never used Elodie's full name except in very serious situations.

"Just, last time we hugged, I put my arms 'round his stomach and my head on his chest," She mimed her action. John nodded for her to continue. "and there was a lump on his heart."

She stopped and turned to look at him. "What is it? Is something' wrong?" She must have noticed his reaction. John realized she needed to know.

"Someone a long time ago tried to hurt Sherlock." He swallowed remembering that day and all the blood everywhere. "And they did hurt him, very badly. But he got better and they, they never tried to hurt him again."

"Oh," She said. "Why did the bad guy try and hurt him?"

John didn't want to respond to that, especially not with how his and Mary's relationship was going. He didn't need anymore animosity between them."It wasn't a bad guy. I mean they weren't a bad person."

"But Daddy," 'Lodie said her eyes still locked on his, looking as naive and as confused as he had ever seen her, "Somebody who attacks a good guy is a bad guy."

He couldn't say anything to that. The simple, innocent logic of that statement was something he could not deny; not to Mary, not to Elodie, and not to himself. John picked up the empty popcorn bag and rose from the bench, using his new cane as he did so.

"I'll call a cab. Mummy's expecting us home for dinner."

Mary wasn't there when they came home. John sighed. She had told him that she was going to make them all a nice family dinner and have a quiet night in with just them and their daughter. They hadn't been having enough time together lately and she wanted to catch up.

He should've known it wasn't going to happen.

He led Lodie into their darkened house and switched on the light. She unzipped her puffy pink coat and gently handed it to John. He was just tall enough to be able to hang it up in the hallway closet. John led Elodie into the kitchen. Mary had forgotten that it was her turn to do the groceries this week, so he fixed a meagre meal of carrot sticks and peanut butter sandwiches. A couple of times over in Afghanistan his unit had met up with the Americans to do drills and such. A guy called Baranowski had introduced him to the stuff and as soon as he came home he started to buy it from Tesco.

Soon the meal was finished and he took Elodie up to bed. He came down to wash the dishes and found Mary leaning against the kitchen counter. Her blond hair was pulled back into a bun and the navy blue blouse she was wearing showed off her figure noticeably. There was no doubt she was a beauty. But her thin lips were creased into a frown and her arms were folded stand-offishly. John could tell it was going to be one of those nights. He hardened his face and smiled weakly.

"Hey Mary how was your-"

"I don't want that man near our child anymore."

* * *

Sherlock's head pounded as he walked to the library. It was a fairly long walk but he wanted to keep readjusting his mental map of London. He noticed there was construction going about halfway to his destination so he made a note of it.

The London library was one of his favorite places in the city. It was filled with every type of obscure knowledge one could ask for and it was private, so there would be no homeless addicts sleeping off their high in the stacks. It was most distracting to try and pursue a shelf, only to find that his wallet was missing. Besides he'd rather not be reminded of his own junkie days.

"Mr. Holmes?" A soft feminine voice asked. "Mr. Holmes?" He hadn't realized he had already reached the library. "May I have your card?" He looked up and saw that he was at the front desk.

"I know. I'm surprised they haven't replaced me with a machine yet too." She smiled. "Your card?"

He had seen this girl before. She was about twenty, but looked older, Her father was clearly Spanish but she had inherited her Germanic mother's looks. She lived alone, (obvious by the fact she had needed a co worker to do the clasp on her bracelet; a gift from her aunt). She was estranged from her family by her own choice, the aunt was too... possibly both lesbians? But no, she was a Catholic, a devout one too by the sign of the scapular around her neck, so not because of religious differences. Why then? There was something different, something not clicking...

"Sir, sir?" Her soft Irish accent shook him from his reverie. "Are you quite alright?"

"Your accent." He managed. "It was different last time. From South London."

She looked sheepish. "Why yes it is. Um, I'm-" Her tone gained the silky roughness of the American South. "I'm an actress suh."

"Yes of course, American. That's the reason you read so much Steinbeck."

She brightened. "Oh have you-"

"No. Fiction is a waste of time much like your acting career. Theater is dead. Especially musical theater."

"I should introduce you to my parents. You'd get along famously."

"That's a lovely Surrey you have."

"Thank you. Sometimes I need to switch in the middle of a conversation to keep from getting bored."

"Bored? You think I'm- you think I'm boring?"

"No. Just the completely unasked for criticism pouring from your mouth." Now it was Scottish. "Your card please?"

"Your name please?" He placed it into her delicate hand.

"Thanks guv'." She winked. "It's Diana."

"Mine's Holmes. Sherlock Holmes."

"I know, Mr. Holmes." She handed the card back and ran her fingers over the gloved hand. "I looked up your account." She turned back to her computer and stated in a New York accent. "See ya later, pretty eyes."

* * *

"Why?" John was weary, "Just why?"

She moved away, her face crinkled in disgust. "You really need an explanation?"

"For cutting my daughter's godfather out of her life? Yeah, I guess I do."

"He's an addict, John." He hated the sour look on her face. As if she was one to talk.

"He's clean now." He hated how defensive that sounded.

"Once an addict, always an addict." She pursed her lips. "He's a psychopath, John, a bloody psychopath. Do you want a future serial killer around your daughter?" John thought of another woman from years before, who had told him much the same thing. "Do you think a murderer is a good influence on your daughter?"

"No." He felt his voice go sickly quiet. "So why are you still here?" It was far, too far over the line. Mary's face became that of a bull, savage and about to charge.

"You bastard...you goddamn bastard." He braced himself for a blow or a punch or a kick.

 _Ding-Dong_

They turned to face the door. A wicked smile crept over Mary's face. He saw what she was going to do and knew he had to get past her. He tried to rush her.

She moved faster than she should have. His timing was off and Mary took advantage of his limp and swept him off his feet. He crashed to the kitchen tiles, in pain and moaning. His head had cracked against the cabinets on the way down and the blow _hurt_.

"Speak of the devil," She murmured "I'll go answer the door, dear."

Her hips swayed in an unnaturally sexy way as she headed towards the door. She slid out of view as John struggled to get up from the floor. Noises floated from down the hall and he caught snatches of the dialogue.

"-John?"

"-not here."

"Where is-"

"-go."

"What?"

"-decided-"

"But I'm her-"

"Not anymore."

"I demand to-"

Suddenly, he heard a pitter-patter of little feet run down the stairs.

"'Lock!"

"Elodie!"

"Why are you down here!" Why was Mary yelling he wondered? That wasn't her scolding voice. She sounded furious.

"No! You can't- I won't let you!"

"No! No!" Her voice was hysterical.

The door closed.

Mary rushed back into the kitchen and grabbed his head. She shook him.

"Get up! Get up, John!" She cried, "He took Elodie!"

Still groggy, he managed to lean his torso against the cabinet.

"Who?" he croaked, not yet realizing the full implications of her statement.

"Sherlock," she said, "Sherlock took Elodie."


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Everything to its respective owners.

He held her closely as he took her away. His heart beat quickly and desperately, but Elodie was too tired to hear it. Her golden curls rested on his shoulder in a gentle sleep. She weighed so little and Sherlock was terrified. The cut on her head was bleeding profusely and dyed her locks scarlett. He was desperate to make sure she was safe. He had been surprised by Mary's savageness; he had not taken her to be such a violent person, at least when it came to her own child. Frankly, it terrified him.

He called a cab, frantically waving his hand to the driver who merely looked irritated at the bedraggled man. He paid his fare early and requested to go to St Barts, but then realized the obvious danger of visiting his common haunt. In a sudden burst of inspiration he thought, of the young woman he had met at London's library. He could tell from looking inside her worn leather wallet, that she was CPR certified by the Red Cross. Most likely she knew first aid as well.

As soon as the cabbie had reached the location through routes known only by London's more desperate classes, Sherlock embarked from the cab carrying the child in his arms. Hurriedly he ducked around the back entrance of the repository and fumbled in his coat for a flat surface, a credit card would do. He slid the card into the space between the door and the door frame and jiggled it until it unlocked. He deposited his tool back into his pocket and entering the building.

It was quiet, quiet as only the phrases of great men can be. It was a strange thing he thought, that a place with so many words could be so utterly still. Elodie stirred a bit from her slumber and looked up at him.

"Hey 'Lock," she looked down from her perch, "where are we?"

He just smoothed back her hair and looked her in the eye. She looked so excited to be with him.

"The library," he paused, "you know you have to be quiet at the library, right?"

"Yeah," she murmured, "or the librarian goes shhh."

"So, shhh, Elodie, or just go to sleep."

Instead of arguing she merely laid her head on his shoulder and drifted off. He progressed to the back rooms where he assumed "Diana" would be working.

* * *

She lifted him up from the floor and he rubbed his head, not yet realizing the meaning of her impossible phrase. John was a man who had believed in the inherent good of human beings. Then came a violent youth and a bloody war and there was only one man left that he believed in. That was Sherlock Holmes.

She looked at him. He looked back. He couldn't believe her words. Instead he got up, shook out his tired limbs, and stumbled towards the stairs.

"Didn't you hear me?" she said, "he took her. I told you he would. He's crazy."

He simply kept on walking.

"What are you doing? Aren't you going to get your child?"

When he reached the top of the steps, he walked down the hallway to Elodie's room. He opened the door searching for his child. He expected her to be playing after dinner, avoiding taking a bath.

The room was empty. He fell to his knees. Mary rushed in after him. She stood still at the sight of John kneeling, looking around at his only daughter's life splashed on the walls of her room.

"John, she's gone." Her voice was terrified.

"Why?" his was blunt, "why did Sherlock take her?"

Her eyes widened, but he didn't grasp why. "John-"

"He knows he's not allowed to take her on cases and where else would they go at this time of night?"

"John," she stuttered, "he's not bringing her back. He took her away. Permanently."

Something hard edged in him and he got up. He couldn't tell if Mary was lying, but if she was she was the sickest psychopath that he had ever seen. And to be in that number was certainly an accomplishment.

"Why would Sherlock want a child to take care of? He can barely take care of himself."

"John, I don't know! All I know is that I told him to get out of our lives and then he picked her up and walked away."

He shot an accusatory glare at her. "Why didn't you go after her then? Why are you so calm?"

"One of us needs to be," she countered, "he told me that Mycroft would come after us. I couldn't risk that."

"What kind of mother are you?" He backed away.

"A practical one. If we were captured no one could rescue her." Tears began to bloom in her eyes. "If it was safe to cry I would."

Her tears hardened his resolve.

"I'm going to reason with him. He doesn't want a kid, he's practically a child himself." He strode towards the door and grabbed his coat. Then after a second of hesitation he grabbed his pistol.

"We'll talk when I get back." He turned away.

* * *

Sherlock found her sorting books, her hands full of words, her voice full of poetry. She was singing at the top of her lungs. It was a strange mix of sound, probably part of a full glee. There was an awful lot of da-da-da-ing.

"-So don't throw away this thing we had,

Cuz when push comes to shove,

I will kill your friends and family,

To remind you of my love-"

"Hamilton?" He stepped out of the shadows and she whirled around. Her hair whipped around her face and he could see she was prepared to ward off a physical attack. Then she saw he was carrying a child.

"How did you get in?"

"Unimportant."

"What about the kid in your arms?"

"She needs help."

"How did she get that cut? Hand her over to me." He did so. It warmed his heart that she did not think him a suspect. Then it worried him that she could miss such a logical assumption.

"Her mother cut her." He watched her tend Elodie, trying to stand back impassively so as to not crowd her.

"Your wife or...?" He scoffed at that assumption.

"That shows you're a foreigner. If you read the papers you would know that I'm a huge sex fiend. An absolute deviant. I could never be satisfied with just one woman." She looked shocked for a second, but nodded to wipe the hair away from the wound on Elodie's head.

"Oh..." She reached down into her purse to pull out a first aid kit. "Personally, I always thought you were shagging John Watson."

He coughed nervously as she opened up the case and pulled out a spreadable antibiotic.

"No, we didn't-, I wouldn't-" She smiled knowingly.

"Okay, whatever makes you feel beautiful."

There was a space of silence.

"How did you know it was Hamilton?"

"In my profession it is necessary to know what is trending."

"Alright."

"How did you know it wasn't me that hurt her."

"You couldn't. Men like you couldn't."

"I'm not a hero. Heroes don't exist and if-"

"Yeah, whatever," She rolled her eyes at his oft-used defense. "you still couldn't do it."

"Why?"

"You like other people too much. You aren't a narcissist."

He burst out laughing. He laughed so hard he ran out of breath and began to cough instead. When his lungs finally refilled, he looked her straight in the eye.

"You are possibly the first person to say anything complimenting my humility. I've been told that like my heart, it doesn't exist. I'm supposed to see myself as a god," His gaze intensified, "And I don't like other people."

"But you're too interested in them. And that's why you have to focus on yourself or you'd go crazy," She cleaned the cut. "Men like you have to make their world small."

He merely looked away and tapped his foot as she bandaged the wound. Elodie stirred a little but she hushed her back to sleep with a smile and a coo. She handed her back to him.

"You should go now." She walked him to the back door of the library and said farewell. She looked him in the eyes.

"I believe in you, Sherlock Holmes." He smiled at that and walked away with Elodie close to his heart.

Then the bright pop of gunfire burst the night quiet and he fell down.


	3. Chapter 3

John walked into St. Bart's with all the anxiety a worn parent could muster. The secretary looked snidely up at him and he lifted his hand in friendly greeting. She snorted and pointed to the hallway.

"He's where he usually is," She coughed, "I didn't know he had a girlfriend though."

John blanched and rushed down the hall to the morgue. The white halls flew by and he passed people grieving, celebrating, merely surviving. He longed for something to anchor him to the world again. His life was no longer made up of concrete experiences, but nebulous blurring ideas that flew by like the wind. After meeting Sherlock the world had become so big, and he longed for it to feel that way again.

He finally reached the morgue's door and tugged desperately at the handle. It would not open, so he glanced at it and thought 'I'm too old for this'.

He kicked it down, using the weakest part of the door and stood staring at the scene before him. He saw Sherlock, neurotic, obsessive Sherlock, resting his head on the table by the side of a pale,blond woman. In her lap was Elodie chattering away like a bird. She appeared to be the only one who didn't notice John's smashing entrance.

"John, I can explain." Sherlock said warily.

"Really? Like a good explanation? Or the same old bullshit I always get thrown at me whenever you fuck up?" The woman covered up Elodie's ears.

"Hey, there's a kid here you know."

John shot her with a piercing look. She didn't back down, her startling green eyes boring into his skull. "Really a kid? I just didn't know there's a kid here? You know what you didn't realize though?" She remained unflinching, "She's _my_ kid, okay? It's my child in your lap and I want her back."

For the first time Elodie seemed to be aware of his presence.

"Hey Daddy! How are you? Why are you here Daddy? Did you meet Ms. Diana? She's so nice ain't she-"

"'Ain't' she?" He cast his gaze across at "Diana".

"Yeah 'ain't' I?" She allowed her voice to slick into a honey thick southern drawl. "It's a real word, look it up idjit."

He tightened his fists and leaned in. She allowed Elodie to slip off her lap and stood straight up.

"What did you call me?" He growled out.

"What? My accent too thick for you _idjit_?" She seemed to relish letting the sound of the word curl around her tongue.

"I don't care what you said, just don't say it in front of my kid." He could feel Elodie slowly losing respect for him.

"I don't know what else to call a man who lets his kid get hurt like-," She stepped back, dancing on the balls of her feet in anticipation. She flicked her head towards Elodie, "-that."

For the first time John saw the white bandage covering a space of about four square centimeters on her head.

"What the hell?" He was ashamed at letting himself slip in front of his daughter, but he pressed on, "Elodie, what happened?" He finally noticed Sherlock, who had pressed close to Elodie's side as if to comfort her. "Sherlock, what happened?"

* * *

Sherlock wanted to rest in the soft cocoon of peace that the last few months had created , but as soon as he saw Mary slam Elodie into the staircase, he knew that was unlikely. His thoughts were confirmed when he had heard gunshot outside the library. He had dropped to the ground, covering Elodie's body with his own, when he felt two soft hands touch him.

"Come on!" Diana gestured, turning around and leading the way to a vehicle on her hands and knees. She stuck to the sides of the building and cajoled Elodie to stay on the side closest to the wall. They passed around the building and into the staff parking lot, when the bullets stopped.

"Get in." She unlocked the car and wriggled over to the driver's seat. He put Elodie in the back seat and got in after her. Diana started the ignition and began to desperately try and rev her standard issue Toyota. The shots started again, except this time the pops were closer.

"Stay down back there!" She called as she finally began to back out of the parking space. Suddenly, one of the bullets hit the top of the car and sent a vibration throughout. She merely pulled out of the parking space and slammed her foot on the gas, reaching about 100 kilometers per hour. She drove recklessly until they lost their pursuers.

"We need to get to St. Bart's." Sherlock said as he tried to calm Elodie down. He knew Mycroft had security crawling over every meter of that building.

"Yeah, sure."

They got there, finally, and Elodie was no longer crying. The girl made to drop them off at the entrance, but he forced her to go in with them. They couldn't be separated, not even for parking.

They had finally gotten to his old resting place, the morgue, when John broke the door down. He tried to hide in his own head, but failed miserably as John confronted him.

"Well Sherlock?" He snarled, "What happened to her?"

Elodie looked at him with her bright blue eyes and Sherlock realized he had never felt this vulnerable in his entire life.

"I didn't hurt her John, you must believe me."

"Oh really, Sherlock, I _must_ believe you, especially after you took her from my house without Mary's or my's permission. It's my absolute duty to believe a pathological liar like you."

"But it's only logical! The facts!"

"Of course that's what a machine like you would say! Do realize you how exhausting it is to have a person like you in my life?"

"Says the man who's married to a former assassin!" Sherlock burst under the pressure. The blast left only silence, as both John and Diana stared, awed at his boldness. After a moment John cleared his throat.

"Well, I guess that's that." He nodded towards Elodie. "Come along, Elodie. We're going home."

The child seemed to instinctively realize what her father meant. She only hugged Sherlock's leg tighter as John stormed towards them.

"Come on Elodie, we're going." He ordered, looking firmly down at her. She was a good girl, always did as she was told.

She didn't.

"I don't wanna go back," She looked up at Sherlock, "I want to stay with him, Daddy." She spoke as if they were talking about a child.

In a way they were.

"I have absolutely no patience left. You're coming with me now," Sherlock caught sight of John's face in shadow, "Sherlock's a big boy. He can take care of himself."

Diana intervened. "Listen, I don't know who the hell you think you are, but we were shot at. Your daughter was shot at. None of us know who did it so we'd be damn fools to split up."

John looked incredulous, "You were shot at and you didn't think to tell me that first?"

* * *

He was so goddamn tired. "Why the hell wouldn't you tell me if my child was shot at?" He was done. So done. "So Sherlock, you took my child from my house without my permission. You exposed her to a woman that I've never met, and then you allowed her to get shot at," He looked Sherlock over with a cold gaze and saw him shiver, "I don't think you should come around anymore," He paused, "No you definitely shouldn't come around anymore. If you do I'll kill you." He grasped Elodie by the hand. "We're leaving now."

"No you aren't," He turned and saw that Diana was holding Elodie's other hand. Her other hand was held behind her back. "I'm not letting you take her back to a woman like that."

John was so goddamn tired of people pushing him around. "Listen lady, I couldn't give a damn about what you think. She's my kid."

The barrel of his own Browning faced him. "Do you give a damn now?" She said, pointing the pistol at his face.


End file.
